


Every Word Tell

by the_deep_magic



Category: Historical RPF, Literary RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, M/M, Teacher-Student Relationship, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-24
Updated: 2011-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-23 10:44:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_deep_magic/pseuds/the_deep_magic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What he saw was largely familiar – Strunk’s succinct, pithy prose addressing common questions on English usage, giving tips for streamlining one’s writing.  What White didn’t expect was the sudden clenching in his chest at reading his old professor’s words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Word Tell

**Author's Note:**

> Blame [XKCD](http://xkcd.com/923/) and [](http://ewinfic.livejournal.com/profile)[**ewinfic**](http://ewinfic.livejournal.com/) and [](http://zjofierose.livejournal.com/profile)[**zjofierose**](http://zjofierose.livejournal.com/).

The courier that delivered the manuscripts was a sullen, contemptuous boy who, naturally, had no idea what he was carrying.  White tipped him with a dime and got a vague snarl in return, but it didn’t matter – he had the precious package in his hands now.

Not that he couldn’t find the same text in any bookstore in New York.  On the contrary, what had begun as a slender 43-page volume, produced quickly by Cornell’s press for the use of its students, had since become the famous _Elements of Style_ , the Bible for writers of all stripes seeking to improve their own prose.  Of course, Edward Tenney – a man White himself had never met – had helped edit it for publication beyond the halls of Cornell, but the words remained essentially those of William Strunk, Jr., White’s former teacher and, once, beloved mentor.

The man whose handwritten manuscripts White now possessed.  It had been two years in the works now since White had run across the book, now called _The Elements and Practice of Composition_ , in a rundown old bookstore in Hell’s Kitchen, seen his former professor’s name, and realized the words that had served him so well as a lowly undergraduate were now being disseminated to the world.  He had bought it, and three more copies in bookstores on the way home.

Katharine was not at home when he returned, squirreling himself away in his study to peruse his new finds.  What he saw was largely familiar – Strunk’s succinct, pithy prose addressing common questions on English usage, giving tips for streamlining one’s writing.  What White didn’t expect was the sudden clenching in his chest at reading his old professor’s words.

 _“A sentence should contain no unnecessary words, a paragraph no unnecessary sentences, for the same reason that a drawing should have no unnecessary lines and a machine no unnecessary parts. This requires not that the writer make all his sentences short, or that he avoid all detail and treat his subjects only in outline, but that every word tell.”_

White could practically hear it in his mentor’s quiet but commanding voice, though he had not thought about Strunk in three decades.  He didn’t even know what had become of the man.  White himself was now nearing 58, and Strunk’s hair had already begun to turn grey back when they had walked the halls of Cornell together.  That would make Strunk nearly 88; surely he could not still be…

And he was not, confirmed the faculty at Cornell.  Strunk had retired in 1937, and died nearly ten years later after a mental breakdown that sent him to a psychiatric hospital in Poughkeepsie.  “Senile psychosis,” said the chair of the English department, the only man still there who remembered Strunk, and who at least had the courtesy to sound somewhat aggrieved as he related the news.

Not long after that was the first time White got his column to his editor long before the deadline.  He was not effusive in his praise of his old mentor – he imagined Strunk frowning at every unnecessary adverb – but he did display enough passion in his words that his editor, usually the grumpiest son of a bitch at the _New Yorker_ , commended him for it.

That had been two years ago.  Two years in which Macmillan and Company, obviously impressed by his article, had approached White to ask him to revise his former professor’s text.  White had refused at first, feeling undeserving of the task.  But he was also unable to push Strunk from his mind.  At the time, White had been a mere lad of 20 who thought he understood what it meant to write.

Professor Strunk – only his colleagues called him Bill – looked far younger than his 50 years, never more so than when he was behind the lectern.  Though, in reality, he rarely stayed behind the lectern, pacing almost excitedly as his lectures ranged from the works of Ovid to Scandinavian texts that had never been translated into English.  There was such youthful vigor about him, such passion, and White had been quickly ushered into the world of literature.

When White found out about the Manuscript Club, he cleared every Saturday night on his (admittedly paltry) social calendar.  The meeting place changed from week to week, but often the same professors and students gathered to talk about the theory and practice of writing, and always Professor Strunk was deeply engaged in the discussions.  White would sit as near to his professor as he could, as though he could somehow absorb some of the man’s brilliance simply through proximity.

As much as White enjoyed these meetings, he rarely spoke.  What could he possibly contribute to this meeting of great minds?  When he did speak, it was with quiet gravity – he wanted more than anything else to display precision in his speech, choosing his words with great deliberation.  To his own ears, it sounded labored, and he rarely managed to finish making his point without flushing a humiliating shade of red.  But though some of his fellow students looked upon him with slight pity, Professor Strunk always listened carefully, and would often ask White to elaborate upon his ideas.

So it was with no little emotion that White carefully unwrapped the parcel after carrying it carefully to his office.  Inside were two manuscripts – the first a copy of the 1935 edition, edited by Tenney, that White had been asked to revise.  By then, someone had obviously coerced Strunk into using a typewriter, but his fluid handwriting still warred with the more bold red-inked edits that must have come from Tenney.  White wondered just what sort of man Tenney was, and experienced a brief pang of envy that he should have been able to collaborate with Strunk on his master work.  Was there relationship adversarial or congenial?  Perhaps… more than congenial?

There had been rumors about Professor Strunk, as there were always rumors in such departments.  But Strunk was married, with two children and a third on the way, so few people gave the whisperings any credence.  And for all the times White sat alone with Strunk in his office, air redolent of worn leather and old books, sometimes seated closely next to each other to bend over the same book or manuscript, White had never once felt even a whisper of inappropriateness.

Not even if White had wished, perhaps, that his favorite professor might, on the occasions when he leaned in too close to turn a page or point out some particular turn of phrase, turn his head ever so slightly and…

White shook his head fiercely.  He had not thought in such specific fantasies since graduating from Cornell, much less since getting married ten years later.  They were boyhood fancies; that was almost to be expected, and he’d personally known several fellow students who had taken such things out of the realm of theory and into practice.  He’d even heard convincing tales of a professor and a student, though the professor had been much younger and of nowhere near the same level of respectability of Professor Strunk.

And that respectability, White told himself, was why the second manuscript in the packet was even more valuable than the first.  Strunk had always despised typewriters, calling them noisy monstrosities that could not possibly aid in the process of creation.  Of course, the books had to be typeset to be published, but this first manuscript of _The Elements of Style_ was in Strunk’s own hand.

After fifty years, the ink had faded, but not as considerably as White might have imagined.  Somebody cared for this manuscript – somebody kept it from the damaging influence of light and mold and insects.  Something about that thought touched White’s heart immeasurably.

White hardly dared touch the thing.  He couldn’t help but think, “ _If I profane with my unworthiest hand_ …”  Strunk had served as a script consultant for MGM’s production of Romeo and Juliet in the 30’s – White only knew about it from a press clipping a friend from California had sent.  Professor Strunk in Hollywood – how out of place he must have looked.  But White could imagine that he had enjoyed it, bringing his passion for literature to life through the pictures.

But, setting aside the 1935 expansion, White did pick up the original manuscript, turning its pages with the greatest of care.  His professor’s handwriting was generally fluid and neat, but liable to change with his mood, as evidenced by certain hasty and barely legible scribbles in the margins.  White smiled at the words which had been crossed out, written back in, and then crossed out again.  Brevity was Strunk’s principle cause, his ultimate aim, possibly because he struggled with it himself.

The last time they saw each other was the day of White’s graduation.  There had been such chaos that White had wondered how the university could possibly stage such an event every year, yet somehow he had ended up with his diploma, and was even able to say farewell to a few of his professors.  He ran into Strunk – quite literally ran into him – in the hallway, and tried to stammer some apology.

Strunk had offered his hand, and though White was prepared to shake it, he was not prepared to be pulled into an embrace.  The professor’s formal robes, worn for the ceremony, smelled musty, but his body beneath was solid and strangely reassuring to a young man about to be let loose into the world with an English degree and little else.

“Mr. White,” Professor Strunk had said, and perhaps it was White’s imagination, but there seemed to be a quaver in that voice.  “I have found you to be among the most profoundly thoughtful students I have ever had the privilege of teaching.  Your presence here at Cornell, and at the Manuscript Club, will be missed.  Dearly missed.”

And though White could remember the exact words his mentor had said to him, he could not for the life of him recall his own reaction to them.  He had not laughed or bawled, he knew that much.  Most likely, he gave a perfunctory “thank you” that did nothing to express the magnitude of his adoration for the man.  How he would love to live that moment over again, but what would he say?  What words would be enough?  But perhaps his brevity had been enough for Professor Strunk, who had prized concision above all else.

Though he could not bring back that lost moment, or those lost years when he could have simply written his old professor a letter, could he have worked up the courage, White could ensure that Strunk’s best, simplest work lived on.  The publishers had entrusted him with this task because of an article he’d written about an out-of-date book from an obscure academic, but White felt, with a sudden surge of confidence, that Professor Strunk, that _Bill_ , would have chosen him for this assignment, had he still been alive.

White sat back in his chair, gently depositing the manuscript on the desk and taking a deep breath to stretch his muscles.  His eyes cast around his office, the shelves full of books, and his eyes happened to land upon Robert Louis Stevenson’s _Treasure Island_.  Though it had never been one of his favorite books, White nonetheless recalled something Stevenson had said about writing, about a quest for “one moment of felicity” in his prose.  He wasn’t sure why, but White was certain his dear professor would find that a suitable summation of his aim.

With a smile, White pushed aside his typewriter, picked up his pen, and, pulling a fresh sheet of paper from the desk drawer, began composing the introduction to _The Elements of Style, Second Edition_.


End file.
